


We Survive, We Get By

by RiseHigh



Category: Mr. Selfridge (TV)
Genre: And it sucks, Angst, Brace yourself, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Loxley is awful, Post-Series 01, and Mae is as strong as she can be, but even she can't see all of it, but she doesn't give up, even though she'd be better off walking away, it's Mae and Loxley, marital rape, she's trapped by him and the social construct of the time, the magnitude of what he's doing, this is not a happy one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiseHigh/pseuds/RiseHigh
Summary: "Please try not to worry. I shall see to it that this play closes within a week."Mae has every intent of shutting down Tony's play, but Loxley beats her to it and promptly summons her to the country.  Upon arriving in the country, Mae begins to realize that her position in her carefully managed relationship is a bit more fragile than she would like.





	1. 'Cause I've been chewed up and spit

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by Mae's troubled face at the end of Series 1. It's more than just embarrassment over the play--she's shaken. Throughout Series 1, Mae is rather glib when it comes to Loxley. It's clear that she doesn't like him, but she doesn't seem to have the same fear that you see in her eyes when he returns at the start of Series 2. Something had to have happened during the intervening five years to cause this shift in their relationship. This is my take on what that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's in the tags, but the warning bears repeating: This story will deal with domestic abuse/marital rape--both of which, Mae will not always recognize for what they are. So strap in.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning,” Mae echoed tiredly as she sat up.

She would have to deal with Tony’s play today.  It would be manageable, but not without some effort.  Then there would be the whispers and the looks.  Mae could deal with them—she always had—but that didn’t mean she was looking forward to it.  She shifted slightly as Pimble set her breakfast tray on her lap and forced a smile. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my lady.”  Pimble handed her the newspaper and an envelope.  “This was delivered this morning.”

Mae dropped both items on the bed next to her.  “Wonderful.”

“Can I get you anything else, my lady?”

“No, this is fine.”

After picking at her food for a few minutes, Mae poured coffee into her cup and reached for the newspaper.  No point in delaying the inevitable.  She flipped through it until she reached the review of the wretched play—well, it wasn’t as much a review as an announcement that the play was closing after a single performance. 

She hadn’t done anything yet.  Had Harry?

Mae turned quickly to the ‘Town Talk’ section.  There was plenty of talk about Harry, which made it clear that he wasn’t the one behind the play closing (or if he was the one behind it, Harry was utterly ineffective in his attempt to squelch the rumors it caused).  She scanned the page.  There was no mention of her anywhere beyond a throwaway line about her being the former benefactress of the play’s writer. 

Only one person—aside from herself—could have orchestrated this so quickly.

Her eyes fell on the envelope. 

Mae should have realized it sooner.  Of course, word would have gotten to Loxley.  No matter how much influence she had over those in their circles, there would always be some who would ensure he knew exactly what his _errant wife_ was getting up to.  Sighing, she picked up the envelope and ripped it open to find a telegram.

I EXPECT TO YOU TO ARRIVE BY DINNERTIME. 

Well, at least he was brief. Mae tossed the envelope aside and reached for the cord to ring for Pimble.  She refilled her coffee cup and picked it up to drink, hoping the normalcy of the motion would help with the knot forming in her stomach at the prospect of going to the country.  Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Pimble appeared in her doorway.

“You rang, my lady?”

“I’ve been summoned to the country.”

Mae set her cup down in the saucer with an angry clink.  Pimble—bless her—didn’t even blink and just nodded before glancing at the breakfast tray.

“Are you finished, my lady?”

“Yes.”

Pimble started walking to the side of the bed where Mae sat.  “How long does your ladyship plan to stay?”

“I’d prefer a couple of days, but best pack for a fortnight.”  She sighed as Pimble picked up the tray.  “That should be enough to placate him.”

“I’ll arrange everything.”

“Thank you.”

“My lady?”

“Yes?”

“It’s October.” 

Mae gave her maid a puzzled look.  “And?”

“Pheasant season will have just started, my lady.”

Mae’s lips quirked into a slight smile.  Loxley would spend most of his days shooting.

“Well, that may make this almost bearable.” 

* * *

For all the rules of etiquette that dictated life in London, it was nothing compared to country.  The social mores were positively Victorian compared to in town, and Mae was dreading the lengthy dinners with proscribed conduct instead of the more relaxed atmosphere of a soiree with cocktails and champagne.  There would also be luncheons and tea with women who would sooner die than engage in a substantive discussion.  If Mae dared to bring up the topic of suffrage, the other women would likely faint.  The tedium would be exhausting.

There were, however, somethings she liked about the country.

The stage was smaller and the rules were stricter, but she was still the star.

Mae had the highest title in the county (along with the one next to theirs), which meant each and every one of those dreadfully dull and judgmental women would have to defer to her—await her invitation. 

The automobile turned and Mae looked over to the window to see they were starting up the long driveway to the house.

She could still remember the first time she came up this drive.  They had been married six weeks and all of their time had been spent touring the Continent or in town.  Mae had been reluctant to come—she adored the house in London.  It was in the center of everything.  While the country was in the center of nothing. 

All it had was Loxley’s dreadful aunt who had hated her.

Still hated her.

But then there was that moment coming up the drive—when she saw the house for the first time with the staff lined up.  She was the lady of the manor.  It was tangible proof all she had achieved.

This was who she was and where she was meant to belong.

She wasn’t just the daughter of a hotel porter or some show girl. 

She was Lady Mae Loxley—a marchioness.

Even now, it was a small thrill to see the staff lined up for her arrival.  Some of them were new (Loxley had been known to cycle through housemaids on more than one occasion), but there were also familiar faces who seemed pleased with her return. Conspicuously absent from the line-up was her husband. 

He was snubbing her in front of the servants—how mature.

The car slowed to a stop and Mae waited for one of the footmen to open the door.

When she reached the doorway the butler greeted her formally.  The man had always disliked her—believing Lord Loxley should have married at least Count’s daughter instead of the likes of her—but he was stubbornly polite towards her, so she nodded politely in turn.  Mrs. Morrison, however, greeted her warmly.  The housekeeper always appreciated having someone around to actually run the house.

“Welcome home, Lady Loxley,” Mrs. Morrison said as they walked through the main entrance.  “I’ve had your bedroom aired and Mrs. Lange would like to discuss menus once your ladyship is settled.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morrison.”  Mae glanced in the direction of the library.  “Is he?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Mae ignored the knot in her stomach and forced her face into a neutral expression as she headed to the library, where she found Loxley seated at the desk—intentionally ignoring her in favor of a letter he was writing.

“You summoned.”

He said nothing until he finished writing. 

“I took the liberty of informing a few people of your return to the country.  You have already received a number of correspondence,” Loxley gestured at a stack of envelopes.  “Jonty and Lillian have invited us for the weekend.  You’ll respond to them today?”

It was framed as a question but was anything but.  “I’ll do it right after I change, _dear_.”

“Good.  My Aunt Mary will be so pleased to see you.”

* * *

If time moved slowly in the country, it absolutely crawled at Loxley’s cousins’ house.  Loxley spent the weekend shooting with Jonty, but Mae was forced to spend her days in the house.  Lillian was fine enough—if not thoroughly dull—but ‘Aunt Mary’ was insufferable.  Mae could best the woman if she tried, but she had learned years ago that it wasn’t worth the effort. 

So instead she sat there with a polite smile as the woman droned on and made subtle (and not so subtle) digs at the _shameful lifestyle_ Mae was leading in London. 

As much as she wanted to deny it, Mae was bothered by her words.  She wasn’t ashamed of her life in London.  After all, she and Loxley were hardly the first couple to have an arrangement like theirs.  She was, however, ashamed how she allowed Tony to get the upper hand and make a mockery of her in such a public way.  This was something she should have been able to control.

The constant reminder of it all was draining.  On the second night she longed to skip dinner and go straight to bed. When Pimble finished her hair and left the room, Mae placed her elbows on the vanity, rested her chin upon her clasped hands, and closed her eyes for a few moments of respite before she'd be forced to back into the throes of family.

“Are you tired?”

Mae’s eyes snapped open at the sound and looked through the mirror to see Loxley in the doorway. It wasn’t surprising to see him—he was there to escort her down to dinner, but this was the first time since she had arrived in the country that he had expressed any interest in how she was feeling. 

“A little.” Mae turned to look at him. “You know I never sleep well here.”

“There’s no need for us to leave so early tomorrow.  Why don’t we stay until after luncheon?”

“What?”

Loxley’s gaze was blank for a moment and then he smirked, making it clear it had been a joke.  Mae was annoyed by his smugness but felt herself smiling in spite of herself.

“What did Lillian have you doing all day?”

“Walking though the gardens.” Mae paused as Loxley shut the bedroom door. “Every single dreadful one of them,” she continued once it was securely closed.  “She acted as if I had never seen them before.”

“You haven’t been here in years.”

“It’s autumn. Everything is half dead”

Loxley chuckled as he sat down on the edge of the bed near her. “We could have had them to the house.”

“Aunt Mary would have insisted they stay the week while Lillian would have spent the entire time imagining how she’d redecorate.”

“You’re being overdramatic.”

“Every time I look her in the eye I can see the longing for the day she might be Marchioness of Loxley.”  She paused to roll her eyes for effect.  “The woman may be thoroughly dull, but she does have ambition.”

“No one is as ambitious as you, my dear.” 

He took her hand and kissed it quickly.  Mae smiled at him in amusement—for a moment, she was reminded of when they had first been married and were working together to cement both of their positions as the most powerful couple in society.  Things between them had been so much simpler back then.

“Besides,” he continued as he released her hand.  “Jonty will die long before I do.  Lillian will never be a marchioness.”

“I’m certain whatever twit Edmund marries will be just as insufferable.”

“So you plan on outliving me, then?” he teased.

“Well, naturally,” she answered with a tone that matched his.

“That’s what I get for marrying someone for her beauty and youth.”

A part of Mae was affronted by the suggestion that she was nothing more than her appearance, but he was looking at her with something akin to affection, so she chose to say nothing and just raised her eyebrow without letting her smile falter. 

Loxley stood up and offered his hand.  “Shall we?”

“If we must.”

* * *

The next night, dinner was just the two of them at the house.  They spoke briefly of their schedules for the next few of days, before falling into a not uncomfortable silence.  After having to make small talk with family, it was nice to be forced into unnecessary conversation.  Indeed, it had started to feel as if they were returning to the status quo for their relationship.  When they finished the meal, Loxley went to his library for a cigar while Mae retired early. 

After two nights away, it was a relief to get changed and slide under the covers in her own bedroom.  Mae read for a little a bit, but as the minutes ticked by and Loxley did not appear in her doorway, she put away the book and turned off the light. 

Maybe he had actually listened when she had told him she was tired. 

It wasn’t long after she had drifted off to sleep when the sound of her door opening woke her up.  Mae opened her eyes and stared into the darkness.  She should know better than to think—even for just a moment—that Loxley wouldn’t come into her room. The click of the lamp was her only warning before light flooded the room.

“Must we?” She blinked at brightness of the light in annoyance. “You know I’m exhausted.”

“So?” He shut the door and approached the bed with his hands starting on the knot of his dressing gown.  “I’m not asking you to hike across the estate.”

“You’re not asking me anything,” she muttered.

He responded with an unimpressed look and pushed back the duvet.  Mae looked away and fixed her eyes on the ceiling instead of him.  The bed shifted from his weight as he climbed into it. 

“I have spent the last two and a half days with your wretched aunt,” she continued. “Haven’t I been punished enough?”

“This isn’t a punishment.”

His denial bothered her more than his presence in her bed.  It was one thing to be passive aggressive in public or refuse to discuss it, but maintaining a charade this long was ridiculous.

“Have the decency not to lie to me.”  Mae sat up so she could look at him as she continued, “You may not have said a word about it since I arrived, but we both know why you summoned me here.  You are punishing me because I allowed things to get out of hand with that play.”

“You could hardly expect an indiscretion of that magnitude not to have repercussions, could you, Mae?”

“And yet, you claim that none of this is punishment.”

“I called you here to remind you that your life in London is a privilege and that those privileges can be revoked if you do not behave appropriately.”  He paused to tuck her hair behind her ear.  Mae did her best not to react—her only movement was to blink.  “The only reason you do not spend your days organizing garden parties and taking tea with my aunt, is because I allow you to live in London.”

That and the blackmail, Mae thought to herself.  The problem with blackmail, however, was that it became less effective as time passed.  She should have spent the last couple months ensuring that Tony stayed in line and that she had adequate leverage over Loxley, instead of wasting her time on Victor Colleano.

“This is not punishment…” he trailed off he reached to cup her face with his hand. He brushed his thumb over her lips as he continued, “It is merely a part of life.” 

Loxley removed his hand from her face and placed it over her left one.  Her eyes followed and she watched him deliberately rest his fingers on her wedding ring. 

“You are my wife, Mae, and when we are under one roof you are to behave as such.  That was the arrangement we agreed upon two years ago, remember?”

He remained silent until she lifted her eyes to meet his. 

“No one forced you to marry me,” he continued.  “It was your choice entirely, Mae.”

Mae held his gaze for a moment.  He was right.  It had been her decision to marry him just as it had been her decision to start things with Tony and let them end as they did.  She was in the country because of her actions (and inactions), and he was in her bed because she accepted his proposal over any of the others. 

Breaking eye contact, Mae looked down at the ring on her finger and swallowed.

Those choices had been hers—not his.

Turning her hand, she laced her fingers through his and looked up to find Loxley wearing a thinly veiled smirk of victory.  Mae ignored it and lay back down against her pillows—pulling him down with her as she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iterations of this story has been sitting in my drafts for well over a year, and by posting this I hope to peer pressure myself into finalizing/posting the next two (mostly written) chapters over the next two weeks. Dare to dream. Because, clearly, this tiny this fandom needs an upsetting Mae/Loxley fic.
> 
> Anyway, shout out to evilqueenofgallifrey and FernDavant for always encouraging me to write the things...even when it takes me a million years.


	2. I’ve been big, I’ve been hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mae overestimates her ability to control Loxley. And things, predicably, get worse.

For the rest of the week, they fell into the rhythm of life in the country.  Mae would have breakfast in bed and filled her days with luncheons, tea, and the occasional meeting in the village. 

Mae didn’t mind the meetings in the village so much.  Parts could be dreadful—in particular when she had to deal with those who were annoyed with her swooping in to take control.  It was nonsense.  Yes, Mae commanded attention when she was present, but she had no desire to be the permanent chairwoman of the garden club—well, technically, as Lady Loxley, she _was_ the permanent chairwoman—but she had no interest in taking an active role over an extended period of time.

The only meetings she enjoyed were the ones related to the school.  Sure, it was gratifying to see the good the Loxley fortune was doing for the church or the hospital, but seeing the students—especially the young girls—brought her true joy.  Whenever she was in the country, the teachers would arrange an event for her.  This time, they were reading poetry.

“They only arrange such things because they want more money from you,” Loxley had told her.  “They’re playing to your ego.”

“My ego?” she had scoffed.  “It’s your great grandfather’s name on the school.  Besides, I would make a gift to the school regardless.”

“Out of the allowance I give you.”

Mae had rolled her eyes in response.  “You can’t possibly be that opposed to supporting the village school.”

“I already underwrite the majority of its funding, I shouldn’t be compelled to make additional gifts based on the whims of my wife.”

“My ‘whims’ make the tenants like you.”

“I don’t care if the tenants like me.”

“Of course you don’t,” she had said dismissively.  “But it makes managing the estate easier, which means more money for gambling, shooting…etcetera...” she trailed off with a wave of her hand.

He had considered this for a moment and then nodded.  “I suppose I could increase your allowance to cover any donation—within reason, of course.”

“When am I not reasonable?”

“I will see you at dinner.”

He had given her an amused little wave before leaving to change into his hunting clothes. 

As Pimble had predicted, Loxley spent most of the time shooting pheasants either alone or with the various guests.  Mae honestly did not care what he got up to the day.  They never spoke of Tony again, and Mae didn’t bother to protest when showed up in her bedroom each night.  Loxley never took that long and, besides, she was hardly going to stay in the country indefinitely.

Indeed, by the end of the second weekend, their relationship had a returned to its status quo of apathetic civility with the occasional amused barb mocking the duller of their dinner guests.  Mae was ready to return to London that Monday, but she decided she would stay a few more days to placate him, but she would not be spending a third weekend in the country with him.

* * *

“Oh, Pimble, never mind, I found…” Mae trailed off when saw Loxley in her doorway.  “It,” she finished lamely holding up her necklace as he walked into her room.  “I thought you were Pimble.”

“Clearly.”  He held out his hand and she passed the necklace to him. “I received a telegram from Edgerton today,” he continued as he fastened it around her neck.

“Isn’t he in London?” she asked, walking over to her mirror to see how it looked.

“Only until tomorrow.  He’s hosting a shooting party this weekend.  The telegram was an invitation.”

Mae adjusted the necklace slightly. “You’ll enjoy that.”

“We.”

She glanced at him through the mirror.  “Just you, dear.”

“You have other plans?”

“Yes.” Mae turned around to face him.  She had planned to tell Loxley she was leaving the next morning—that would have given him only a day’s warning—but no time like the present.  “I’m leaving for London on Friday.”

“Are you?”

“You can’t expect me to stay in the country indefinitely.”

“You would be returning for the holidays in a matter of weeks anyway,” he said with a shake of his head.  “It doesn’t makes sense for you to return to the London.”

“Sense for whom?” 

“My mind is made up.”

“You can’t force me to stay here,” Mae argued. “I’m not a prisoner.”

“No, you are my wife.”

“We need a presence in London.”

“No, you _want_ to be in London, there’s a difference.  My wants supersede yours.”  He reached for her hand but she pulled it out of his grasp.  “Mae.”

He reached for her hand again, but Mae held it against her stomach and blocked it with her other arm.  Loxley forcibly pushed her arm out of the way so he could take her hand.

“A presence in London can wait until after the holidays.”  He kissed her hand while she glared at him. “Now be a good girl and finish getting ready.  Our guests will be here soon.”

Mae wiped her hand where he had kissed her as soon as his back was turned.  That had gone far worse than she anticipated, but she was not going to bend to him—not on this.  She would find a way to convince him or make it that he could not refuse.

“Ahem.”

Mae turned to find her maid in the doorway. “Pimble.”

“Your gloves, my lady?”

“Thank you.”

“I see your ladyship found the necklace.”

“Yes.”  She finished with one glove and started on the second.  “But not the bracelet.  Did you find it?”

“No, my lady.  It must still be in London.”

“No matter—just pick one of the others.” 

Once her glove was on, she held out her wrist so Pimble could fasten a bracelet around it.  She smiled in thanks and went to her vanity to check her make-up.

“My lady?”

“Yes, Pimble?”

“Would your ladyship like me to send for some of the jewelry that’s still at the house in London?”

Mae sighed.  Pimble must have overheard.  “We will be returning to London in two days.  I’ll handle Loxley.”

* * *

Her opportunity came at the start of dinner—when Lord Maxwell mentioned an event in London.  Mae glanced at Loxley out of the corner of her eye.  He was talking with one of the guests, but she could tell that he was listening.

“I would love to attend.”

“Will you be in London?”

“Lord Loxley suggested that I return this weekend.” Mae took a sip of her drink with forced casualness.  Now that she had publicly made it his idea, he would have to let her leave.  “He’s so solicitous, isn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

Throughout the rest of the evening, Mae intentionally acted as if she were already back in London.  She still followed etiquette and decorum, but she allowed herself to actually enjoy herself.  It was an added bonus that the more attention she received (whether male or female), the more Loxley glowered.

The more he glowered, the more he drank, but Mae ignored it.  It didn’t matter if he was drunk tonight or even the next, because in two nights she would be in London.  Alone.

* * *

It was a while after their guests left before Loxley came up to her bedroom.  When he finally did, he had a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other.  Mae was at her vanity and barely bothered to glance at him through the mirror.

“Must you smoke in here?”

“It’s my house.”

She reached for a bottle of lotion with more force than was probably necessary. “This is my bedroom.”

“Only because I gave it to you.”

Mae bit back a sharp response and looked down her hands.  She tried to focus on rubbing the lotion into her hands in slow deliberate circles, but she could still hear the clink of the ice in his glass and the creak of the floorboards as he walked further into her room.

“Everything you have is premised on my generosity.” 

There were more clinks of the ice and then the sound of a glass being set down.  He must have finished his drink then.  Mae looked up at the mirror to confirm her assumption.

“You would do well to remember that.”

Mae met his eyes through the mirror.  “How can I forget?”

“You’ve seemed to have forgotten tonight.”  Loxley walked back over to her.  “Informing Maxwell that you will be returning to London at my suggestion, and otherwise behaving as if you had just stepped off the stage.”

“I will be returning to London, and I was merely being a good hostess.” Mae stood up so she could face him directly.  “You can’t expect me to ignore our guests.”

“I expect you to behave like a lady.”

“No one else seemed to mind.”

“You shouldn’t care about anyone else.”

“Well, I don’t care about you at all.”

The words had barely left her lips when Loxley backhanded her.  Her hand flew to her cheek and she stared at him with what she hoped came across as defiance and not fear.  Loxley had never hit her before—not like this.  She should have paid more attention to how much he had been drinking before antagonizing him.

“What is it that you care about, Mae?” he asked with a sneer.  “Your reputation?  Your lovers?  Everything you have is premised on you being _Lady Mae_.  You can’t be Lady Mae without me—without the Loxley name, you are nothing.” 

There was a truth to his words.  Without his title she was nothing more than a former show girl.  It didn’t justify his behavior, but it was a reminder that there were times when she should be a bit more conciliatory to him.

So when he gestured her with his cigar and ordered her to “take that off and get on the bed,” she lowered her hand from her face and undid the knot of her dressing gown.  Sex was the last thing she wanted but it was the fastest way to get him out of her room, so she let the dressing gown slide off her shoulders onto the floor and walked towards the bed.

His voice stopped her.  “All of it.”

Mae blinked in surprise.  Loxley had been fairly predictable of late—seemingly content with pulling her nightdress up—but tonight was different.  It wasn’t just the alcohol or even the fact that he had hit her.  There was an edge to his voice that sent a chill through her.

“If you want the privileges of being Lady Loxley,” he continued. “You must fulfill your duties.”

Forcing the fear down, she did as he ordered—no, asked—Mae corrected .  If she kept thinking like that, she would fall prey to her inner desire to scream at him until he left her room.  She couldn’t do that—not after how far she had come.  If she wanted to be Lady Loxley, this was just the thing she had to do.  It was only sex.  Nothing more.

“Good girl.”

Mae hated when he called her that.

She did her best to appear uninterested in him or what he was about to do.  When he sat down on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on her bare stomach, Mae kept her eyes fixed on a spot just over his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to look at him.  She could close her eyes—block him out or pretend he was someone else—but that would be a concession of what little power she had.  It would show him how bothered she was.

It would let him see that she was weak.

All she had to do was lie there.  They would have sex and then he would leave, just like had the last twelve nights.  Except that tonight he had yet to take off his trousers.  He just sat there—smoking his cigar and trailing his hand up down her body—clearly enjoying the way she was laid out before him like a prized possession.

“Honestly, Loxley,” she complained while giving the cigar a pointed look.

“What?” he asked insolently before taking another puff.

She continued to glare at him until he removed the cigar from his mouth.  But instead of putting it out, he ran the unlit end between her breasts and down her stomach.  Her breath caught in her throat until he returned the cigar to his mouth. 

This reaction seemed to amuse Loxley, who smirked as he stood up to remove his trousers.

Mae swallowed a groan of annoyance.  She needed to stop antagonizing him.  Every time she pushed him, he pushed back harder—Mae knew this— _she knew better_.  If she had kept with her obedient wife act during dinner, she wouldn’t be in this position right now.  Loxley would already be out of her room and headed to his own bed, but no, she just had to fight with him. 

Loxley climbed onto the bed and over her.  She tried to spread her legs—to urge him along—but he stubbornly stayed sat on his knees so he could grope her breasts and keep smoking.  Mae didn’t enjoy the way his hands moved possessively over her body, but she could tolerate it. 

Mae never would have gotten as far as she had if she had not been very good at tolerating things. 

The cigar, however, was different.  He was clearly doing it just to annoy her—to prove his power over her.  She had stripped off her clothing at his demand and was literally pinned beneath him.  There was no need for him to demean her further by blowing smoke in her face. 

“Just put the damn thing out and get on with it.”

Loxley removed it from his mouth and studied it thoughtfully before looking down at her.  “Why should I do that?”

“Because I asked.”

“What have you done for me lately?”

Mae scoffed and gestured at the pillows she was leaning against.  “What do you call this?”

“My right as your husband.” 

She watched him return the cigar to his mouth with disgust.  She needed to try a different tack.  Mae licked the palm of her hand and sat up slightly so she could reach between his legs. 

“And it’s as your wife…” she paused to run her finger up the length of his shaft before wrapping her hand around it.  “That I am asking.”

“Do you really think I’m so easy to manipulate?”

Of course he was.  All men were.  Loxley would have her either way, but they both knew he would enjoy it more if she acted like an enthusiastic participant.  She could stomach giving him more pleasure if it would get him out of her room sooner.

Mae squeezed gently as she start moving her hand up and down.  “You’re not telling me to stop.”

“You think it’s so easy to get your way.”

She said nothing and ran her thumb around the head of his cock.  The look on his face told her that her ministrations were having the desired effect.  This was easier than she had thought.

“You really want me to put this out?”

She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.  “Yes.”

“Very well.”

A smile of victory was just starting to cross her face, when she saw something flash in Loxley’s eyes.  In an instant, Loxley had pushed her back and pressed the burning end of the cigar into her thigh.  Mae cried out in pain and his hand covered her mouth. 

“You can’t always get what you want by spreading your legs, Mae,” he growled.  “Do not underestimate me.”

The words barely registered as she tried to get away, but the weight of Loxley on top of her and the force of his hand over her mouth made it impossible. 

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled the cigar away.  He kept his hand over her mouth and Mae’s breath came in short gasps as she watched him examine the now no longer lit cigar.  He moved and she flinched in fear.  She couldn’t see what he was doing, but his movement caused the hand over her mouth to shift. 

Mae bit down as hard as she could.

He pulled his hand back and smacked her.  “Bitch.”

Again, Mae tried to get away—push him away from her—but she couldn’t get him off of her.  Loxley grabbed her face and squeezed her jaw painfully. 

“Never do that again,” he told her angrily.  “I give the orders and you obey them, yes?” 

He forced her head to nod in agreement before he released her.  He shifted his position and she felt his knee between her legs.

“No,” she pleaded as he forced her legs apart.  

He didn’t need to do this.  She didn’t want him to do this.  She had learned her lesson—she wouldn’t challenge him again like that. 

“Don’t,” she whispered as he pushed himself into her.

Mae screwed her eyes closed against her tears as she tried to think of anything but the pain in her leg or the sound of Loxley grunting over her. 

He finished—finally—and she rolled onto her side after he climbed off of her. 

After a moment, she felt the bed depress again and stiffened in anticipation of Loxley’s touch.  She was surprised when she felt something silky—her dressing gown, she realized—being draped over her. Mae kept her eyes closed and waited for him to do something more, but she felt the bed shift again and then heard the door open then close.

Even after she was certain he wasn’t coming back, Mae kept her eyes closed.  If she didn’t open her eyes, then maybe could convince that none of this had happened and her leg hurt for some other reason. 

It didn’t work.  It was too much

The stickiness between her thighs and the smell of him on her skin was overwhelming. 

But it wasn’t just the smell of him, it was something else. 

It was her—her burnt skin. 

A sob bubbled up from within her with such force that Mae had to bite down on her knuckle to keep from breaking down completely.  Tears wouldn’t change anything. 

She sat up abruptly and slipped on the dressing gown. 

The sudden movement made her dizzy and she reached for her nightstand to steady herself.  Her fingers bushed against Loxley’s glass and she looked to see the cigar sitting it.  She reached out her fingers again to touch it—not the cigar; she couldn’t bring herself to touch that—but the glass. 

It was crystal.  Engraved.  From Germany.  A little shop in a fairy tale town along the Rhine.  They had stopped there during their ‘Grand Tour’ of the Continent after they married. 

Mae ran her fingertips over the delicate leaves that wrapped around the glass. 

She had loved those leaves—the way they seemed as if they were blowing in an invisible wind.  When she had asked if they could buy them, Loxley had told her there was no need—he had more glassware than he knew what to do with. 

 _But we don’t_ , she had told him.  That was all that it had taken. 

The glassware was hers

 _Theirs_.

Mae wrapped her hand around the glass and hurled it against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah...that happened. Look, next chapter will get better. Well, not "better" better, but Mae doesn't have to cope with this entirely alone.


	3. I’ve been burned but I have learned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...the lyrics of the song that I'm using for chapter titles are a little too on the nose for this one, but here we are.

“His lordship suggested you see if Lady Loxley needs anything.”

The moment Loxley’s valet gave her the message, Pimble knew something was wrong.  She had finished with Mae for the night and, if Mae had needed something she would have rung—she never would have sent a message through Loxley.

Pimble knocked lightly on the bedroom door and got no response.  Hearing the water running in the bath, she knocked one more time before walking inside.  The room was much as she left it barely an hour before.  The duvet and blankets on the bed were in slight disarray, but that was not entirely unexpected.

Scooping up Mae’s nightdress and drawers from the floor, Pimble walked towards the bed to straighten the bed.  She was re-fluffing the pillows when she caught a flash of light out of the corner of her eye.  Pimble put the pillow back in place and went to look closer. 

It was broken glass—numerous shards.

That was a bad sign.

Pimble quickly went to the wardrobe to pull out a fresh nightdress and underclothes before heading to the bathroom.  The door was ajar, so she knocked as she pushed it open.  Mae was in the bathtub with her dressing gown still on and the water running.  Pimble watched her shoulders stiffen at the sound of the door.

“My lady?”  Mae’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but she didn’t say anything.  Pimble hesitated in the doorway.  “Lord Loxley told Burton I should look in on you.”

“How considerate of him.”

Mae didn’t move or turn to look at Pimble, but the fact she had spoken—even if her the tone was flat—was enough of an invitation.  Closing the door behind her, she approached Mae slowly and saw a bruise forming on the woman’s face.  

There had been bruises before—on her arms or wrists—but Mae had never volunteered information and Pimble knew better than to ask.  She knew the cause.  Men like him were always the cause.

“My lady…”

Mae did not say anything and just continued staring off into the middle distance.  She was also shaking slightly—no, not shaking—shivering.  The dressing gown she wore was damp and clinging to her skin.

“Would you like me to turn on the boiler?”

“I want it cold.”

“You’re shivering, my lady.”

Mae looked down at her shaking hands in surprise. “I am, aren’t I?”

Pimble’s eyes followed Mae’s gaze from the woman’s hand to her leg positioned under the faucet.  She gasped when she realized Mae’s leg wasn’t just red from the cold water but from some kind of injury. 

“It’s fine.”

“What happened, my lady?

“I told Loxley to put out his cigar.  For once he listened to me,” she said with a strangled laugh.  Pimble looked at her in horror.  “Come on, Pimble, you have to admit that’s a little bit funny.”

“No, my lady,” she said firmly.  “It’s not.” 

Mae looked back down at her hands in shame, and Pimble immediately felt guilty for her words.  It had not been her intent to make Mae think she was judging her, but it had made her sick to hear her making light of Loxley’s actions. 

Pimble softened her tone.  “How long have you been in here, my lady?”

Mae shrugged. 

“Did you come in here as soon as he left?” she asked and Mae nodded in response.  That would have been nearly twenty minutes ago. “Your ladyship should get out of the bath.” 

Mae shook her head. 

“My lady,” Pimble pressed. “Your lips are turning blue.”

“It will hurt.”  Her voice cracked.  “It’s numb now.”

“Your ladyship is numb.” 

Pimble decisively turned off the water and offered Mae her arm.  She didn’t move, so Pimble reached down and gently helped Mae up and out of the bathtub.  Pimble sat the still-shivering woman down on the stool and got her out of the wet dressing gown and dried off.  She was relieved not find any other injuries, but it was worrisome how little Mae seemed to react to things—she followed her instructions when asked but otherwise showed no interest in anything.

Once Mae was in the nightdress, Pimble crouched down so that she was at eye level.  “I’m going to get another dressing gown.” 

Mae’s only response was to bite her lip and look down at her leg. 

“I’ll only be a moment, my lady.”

The dressing gown was easy enough, but Mae also needed a bandage and Pimble didn’t want to leave her that long.  She was too fragile, so Pimble collected Mae’s slippers and a clean dressing gown and decided she would fetch the rest once Mae was actually talking.  She was about to head back to the bathroom, when there was a knock at the door.

Pimble opened it a few centimeters.  “Mrs. Morrison.”

“Ms. Pimble,” the housekeeper greeted, holding up a tray with brandy and an empty glass.  Pimble pushed  the door open further.  “I though her ladyship might like a drink.”

She shifted the items in her hands so she could take the tray.  “Thank you.” 

“Does Lady Loxley need anything else?”

Pimble started to shake her head but Mrs. Morrison raised an eyebrow.  Apparently she wasn’t the only person who found the message from the valet to be suspicious.

“Bandages.”

The older woman’s eyes widened in concern.  “Anything else?”

“Only discretion.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Mae flinched when something was thrust into her hands.

“I’m sorry, my lady.”

Pimble.  Of course.  She had come in when she was in the bath.

Mae wasn’t in the bath now though.

She was wearing a nightdress and dressing gown, she realized. They were both different than the ones she had been wearing before.  She couldn’t remember when she had changed into these.  She vaguely remembered Pimble helping someone get dressed, but she could have sworn that person hadn’t been her. 

Yet, she was the one who was wearing the clothing, so she must be remembering it wrong. 

She liked this nightdress.  It had eyelet lace and a blue silk satin ribbon that tied in a bow at the waist.  The ribbon was askew—so was the skirt of the nightdress.  It was pulled up on her leg.

It hurt.  She hurt.

“My lady?”

Pimble, right.  Mae looked up at her.

“The drink will help, my lady.”

Mae looked down to see hands holding a glass.  They didn’t look or feel like her hands, but they were the only ones holding a drink, so they had to be hers.  Using those hands, Mae raised the glass to her lips and took a drink.

The drink felt real.

The way it burned her throat.

Those hands still didn’t feel like hers, but the drink was real.   Made her feel real.

When the burning in her throat started to fade, she raised the glass to her lips again, swallowed, waited, and then repeated the process.  As she drank, she was acutely aware of Pimble wrapping a leg in a bandage.  Rather than think about whose leg it was or why Pimble was bandaging it, Mae focused on the drink.

“My lady?”

Pimble’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere.  Mae looked up to find her holding the decanter and then down at the glass to see it was near empty.  She held it out so Pimble could refill it.

“Would your ladyship mind if I fixed your hair?”

Mae shook her head as she raised the glass to take another drink.  Pimble had already tied back her hair that night but if the woman wanted to do it again, who was she to stop her.

After a moment she felt a light tug.

“I’m sorry, my lady.  The ribbon’s a bit tangled.”

Why would...

Mae’s mouth went dry as she remembered struggling in vain to get Loxley off of her. 

Shakily, she brought the glass to her lips again and swallowed, but this time the burn in her throat wasn’t comforting—it reminded her of the burning pain of the cigar against her leg.  Her chest started to feel tight and the air felt too thick to breathe.

She looked down at the glass in her hands and could see the dark liquid sloshing back and forth.

Her hands must be shaking again. 

This was ridiculous.  She should be able to stop them from shaking, but the more she tried the more they seemed to shake.  Was there truly nothing in her life that she could control? 

Mae barely registered the glass being taken from her.  It was replaced with hands—warm, familiar hands.  She looked up to see Pimble.  Her maid was saying something—she couldn’t make out what over the sound of her own breathing—but Mae was certain the words would be kind. 

Pimble had always been supportive no matter what foolish decision she made. 

And she had made so many. 

Yet Pimble was always there when Mae had to face the consequences of her actions—even when she didn’t deserve it. 

Mae looked back down at her hands—their hands.  Pimble’s were moving, she realized, her thumbs moved back and forth in slow even strokes.  She couldn’t feel it though—it was as if Pimble was holding someone else’s hands.  Mae focused all her energy on those movements and slowly she began feel Pimble’s thumbs and then her hands wrapped around hers.  They felt so warm compared to her cold ones—so gentle compared to Loxley’s. 

Her mind flashed to when his fingers had roughly grabbed her face—how she could barely breathe when they had covered her mouth.

She must have flinched or done something because Pimble let go of her hands and moved back to give her space.  The loss of contact was jarring and Mae tried to speak, but all she could manage was to reach out her hands until Pimble took them again.  Mae closed her eyes and focused on Pimble’s touch—trying to slow her breathing to the same pace as her thumbs brushing over her knuckles. 

She needed to pull it together. 

Mae was not certain how much time had passed, but she slowly began to feel more present and could hear Pimble’s voice.  “That’s it, my lady.  Just breathe slowly.”

When she finally did not have to think about breathing, she opened her eyes to find Pimble looking at her calmly—just waiting to see what Mae needed next.  The woman had eternal patience.  She took a few more deep breaths before daring to speak.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said haltingly.  “I apologize.”

Pimble squeezed her hands.  “No reason to apologize, my lady.”

Of course Pimble would be far too kind to call her pathetic.  Mae squeezed her maid’s hand quickly before pulling away and returning them to her lap.

“Shall I return to your hair, my lady?”

Mae nodded before gesturing towards the drink.  “Would you…” Pimble handed her the glass before she could complete the sentence.  “Thank you.”

“Of course, my lady.”

* * *

Fixing Mae’s hair wouldn’t take long—only a matter of minutes really—but Pimble took her time.  She could tell that Mae needed this.  The woman’s shoulders were still tense, but with each stroke of the brush she seemed to relax incrementally.   Still, she couldn’t spend all night on her hair, so she eventually had to finish the half plait and tie the ribbon.

Pimble paused for a moment to see if Mae would react, but she didn’t move.  “My lady?”

“Hmm?”

“I finished with your hair, my lady.” 

This earned her a look of surprise from Mae—as if the woman had forgotten why they were even in the bathroom.  Maybe that was for the best, Pimble thought.  She had never seen her shaken like this.  She placed her hand on Mae’s shoulder and waited.

“I suppose I should go back to bed then,” Mae said finally.  She reached up and patted Pimble’s hand.  “Shouldn’t I?”

“Only if you’d like, my lady.” 

Mae scoffed slightly and looked as if she were about to say something but then shut her mouth.  She sighed and then shifted so she could stand, but paused and winced noticeably.

“Let me help you, my lady.”

They made their way into the bedroom, but when they reached the bed Mae hesitated.   With her arm around her waist, Pimble could feel Mae’s breath start to quicken. 

“We could go to one of the other bedrooms, my lady.”  Again there was no response other than the sound of Mae breathing.  It didn’t seem as bad as the episode in the bathroom, but Pimble didn’t want to push her.  “It wouldn’t be a bother.”

“No,” Mae said shakily.  “No,” she repeated more firmly after a moment.  “I’m fine. I'd prefer the other side.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Pimble got Mae settled into bed and refilled her drink for the third time.  Mae accepted with a thin smile.  She nodded before going back to the bathroom to fetch a bin and towel so she could clean up the glass.   Mae seemed lost in her own world when Pimble started on the glass but by the time she finished she was watching her intently.

“I’m sorry to have created more work for you.”

She shook her head and stood up.  “I’m already finished.”

“Did you find the cigar? It was in the glass when I threw it.”  That was a surprise.  Pimble had assumed Loxley would have been the one to have thrown the glass.  “I think it rolled under the armoire.”

“I’ll look in a moment, my lady.”  She glanced at Mae’s empty glass.  “Would you like some more brandy?”

“Best not,” Mae set down the glass and then slid down under the covers.  “Just turn off the light when you leave.”

* * *

Mae awoke a couples hours later.  More specifically, the pain in her leg woke her. 

It was clearer now—not all the details, but many of them.  Parts were still fuzzy though—like the after.  She remembered being in the bathtub but she couldn’t remember getting in there.  Nor could she remember getting out of it.  She did remember getting back into bed.  Pimble had helped her with that—had given her brandy too.  She should have told Pimble to leave the bottle. 

Then she might be able to get back to sleep.

Mae tried rolling onto to her side.  Her leg stung with pain at first, but after a minute it receded to back to a dull ache and she thought she might be able to sleep.  She closed her eyes but sleep still wouldn’t come.  For some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about this book she had a read a few years ago. 

 _The Man of Property_ it was called.  By Galsworthy

There had been this character named Irene.  She was married to a dreadfully possessive man, and Mae had found her to be insufferably weak.  Irene was in love someone else, but was utterly incapable of carving out a life for herself.  She eventually left her husband but when her lover died, she returned to him in defeat.  Irene didn’t even try.  Instead, she allowed her husband to control every aspect of her life.

At the time she read it, Mae had thought she was nothing like this woman.

But now she couldn’t stop thinking about this one part of the book where the husband forced himself on his unwilling wife.  How had the book described it?  An act of property—no, it was the _supreme_ act of property. 

That made it sound so civilized.

It was accurate enough though.  Loxley certainly did treat her as something he owned.

And Mae had let him.

If she kept this up, she’d be no better than Irene.  A bird trapped in a cage.

She couldn’t live like this—she refused to live like this.  So, staring into the darkness, she began to formulate a plan.  A few minutes later she turned on a light and rang for Pimble.  She moved to stand but sat back down when the stinging pain made her light headed.  She lay back down to wait.

Even though she knew it would be Pimble, Mae tensed when the doorknob rattled.  She released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been showing until her made walked through the door.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“No need to apologize, my lady,” Pimble said as she shut the door behind her.  “What do you need?”

“I want to take the first train back to London.”

Pimble glanced at the clock.  “To make the first train, we’ll have to leave in under two hours.”

“Do you think we can manage?”

“I’ll pack what I can and Mrs. Morrison will ensure the rest is sent on a later train.  I will need to get your traveling clothes.”

“And stationary, paper, ink, from my writing desk too.”

Pimble looked mildly surprised but then nodded.  “Of course, my lady.”

“Would you mind helping me to the dressing table?”

Pimble nodded as she crossed the room to help Mae out of bed.  Mae grimaced as she put weight on her leg. 

“Is the pain worse, my lady?”

“The same I think.”

“We can call a doctor to the house.”

“Yes,” Mae said with a sigh as she sat down.  “Dr. Rhodes—first thing.”

“I’ll arrange it, my lady.  Can I get you anything else right now?”

“No, thank you.” 

Mae waited until Pimble left before turning to look in the mirror.  She was surprised to see a bruise on her face.  She had forgotten Loxley hit her.  That had happened right at the start.  She should have recognized that as a sign of what was to come.  Maybe if she had reacted differently or had said something differently, then the rest wouldn’t have happened.

Never mind, never mind. 

There was no point in dwelling on it.  Taking a deep breath, she picked up her make-up brush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes without saying, but Mae blaming herself should not be read as her having any actual fault. Loxely is 100% to blame.


End file.
